It was soon after arriving in Shimla that the terrible thought struck me. I was standing outside Domino's Pizza watching the crowds stroll past: youths in Marilyn Manson T-shirts, girls in blue jeans. Then I suddenly had an awful feeling that nothing was right for me. I can't think how it happened: the road up had been choked with traffic as usual, the hillsides were buzzing with construction work, the population - like everywhere in India - was said to be six times what it ought to be. Everything was absolutely normal, except me. I staggered into the Starbucks-lookalike coffee bar and grabbed a double espresso.

My problem was that Shimla was just not sufficiently hill station-like. Where were those wonderful men in their handlebar moustaches taking tiffin in their far pavilions? And where might be the chowkidars politely muttering, "Tea-toast, Sahib? Or a will it be peg of brandy?"

I shuddered, finished my coffee and went outside. A boy in an Eminem shirt slouched past. A girl chatted on her mobile phone. Two men were loudly discussing their jobs at a call centre. India's rapid economic progress is certainly playing havoc with some of our beloved misconceptions about the place. And none is more cherished than those glorious mountain retreats of the Raj. Of the many examples in India, Simla (now spelled Shimla) was the most famous, a town that began as a tranquil hilltop hideaway for burned-out army officers. In early prints one can still recognise the saddle of land at 7,200ft where the town now rests, and where the first dak bungalows were built in the 1820s. The rain on one side of the roofs ran away into the Bay of Bengal eventually, that on the other went to the Arabian Sea. Little wonder that, in 1864, when the British were looking for a commanding position for a summer capital, they chose Simla.

From the outset there was a strict regime for the hill station devotee: nature walks, fresh air and sordid love affairs. By the time they built the Mall, a long promenade along the length of that saddle, it had become de rigueur for the burned-out officers to be hunted down and married by eagle-eyed widows. Kipling loved it all, and mined the rich vein of material it provided. His biographer Lord Birkenhead was rather sniffy, dismissing the "furtive adulteries, the pathetic suicides - the provincial femme fatales". But Kipling saw the drama and magic in it.

Even in his day - he first visited in 1883 - there were those doomsayers who were pronouncing the hill station dead. To get the true experience, it was said, one had to step away, along one of those many forested ridges that stack up on Shimla's horizons all the way to Tibet. Lord Curzon decamped 20 miles. Kitchener, while in town, retired up a high hill and glowered down ("a devouring mass of molten energy," Curzon called him). His house is now the Oberoi hotel group's sumptuous Wildflower Hall, a place somewhat different to the one Kitchener knew - would he have lain in the infinity pool at night, as I did, gazing at distant snow-capped peaks? Perhaps not, though the fine dining and deeply traditional drawing rooms would have surely met with his approval. Located on a forested ridge one thousand feet above Shimla town, the Hall has the separation from the hurly-burly that Kitchener wanted, but it is necessarily a thoroughly modern hotel. Sitting in front of a log fire one evening, reading about that lost era of the Raj, I decided to do the same as Kitchener: step away, take the trail and search for some of that former atmosphere.

Next day, with hotel guide, Kalpa, I stepped out the front door of Wildflower Hall and set off into the trees. It's not possible these days to avoid roads completely, but we managed as best we could, wandering through deep forests filled with flowers and butterflies. Occasionally there were clearings of cow-cropped grass with stunning views across the valleys. Kalpa told me tales of polyandrous marriages among the peoples of the Himalayan valleys and of festivals dedicated to flowers that bloom only for a few days on mountain tops.

"All those things are gone, I suppose?" I asked, still unshakeably attached to my notion of Shimla as a modernised ruin.

But Kalpa shook his head. "Oh no, there are women in my village in Kinnaur Valley who are married to more than one husband. And the flower festivals still happen every year."

We moved on, stumbling across a place called Craignanu where a dilapidated colonial bungalow sat in a sea of marigolds. The aged chowkidar opened up for me. Similar government resthouses exist all over India and Pakistan, and can still be used, if you care to negotiate the local bureaucracy. In the living room I found a cabinet filled with old library books - potboiler novels from the 20s, none of which had been stamped out since 1954.

"We don't get many visitors," admitted the chowkidar. "Except the leopard - he comes quite often. I caught him on the veranda yesterday."

A little further along the path I stopped to talk to Naraindra, a farmer, who confirmed the news of the big cat. "There's more than one," he complained. "They ate my goats."

I asked him about all the changes that had come recently. "Wasn't life better in the old days?"

Naraindra was adamant that it was not, despite the leopards. "My father worked for the Maharajah of Patiala over the hill at Chail," he said. "A very cruel man. Now we have roads, schools, hospitals, money. Before, they gave us poor people nothing."

Joining the road, I could see plenty of the more recent development: concrete shells of buildings going up and the dusty scars where roads cut across deforested hillsides. The village of Naldehra had its own mini-boom going on, too: chalet developments that aspire to be Swiss. I took a room in one, and at sunset watched Indian families up from Chandigarh playing at Bernese Bollywood, pullovers draped around shoulders and après-ski whiskies in hand. Meanwhile the monkeys raided their chalets.

Back in Shimla the following day I talked to Anil Bhardwaj - a good man to discuss the changes that have happened. His father had fled Lahore during partition, arriving in Shimla with a bullet lodged in his jaw to remind him of the horrors of communal violence. He had started with a dry-cleaning business that evolved into a clothing shop, then moved into tourist souvenirs - every incarnation of the building lovingly preserved in the signs on the facade. Fifteen years ago Anil took over and made it into a successful trekking agency, but now the newly economically vibrant India is changing that business. "There's so much road-building going on - some treks we did three years ago are no longer possible because roads have arrived and spoiled the atmosphere. Our clients want to escape the roads, step back in time."

Was he planning yet another incarnation for the family business then? He chuckled. "No. We do have to drive deep into the mountains now, but once there the trekking is good. We've started doing some walks that cross over into Tibet. It's a pity about some beautiful places that have been lost, but we're constantly finding new ones."

I told him of my own desire to find the spirit of the old hill station.

"Go up to the Club," he advised me. "It's a place that doesn't change much."

He sent me along with a friend of his, the journalist and writer Raaja Bhasin. The Club is right in the centre of town and the Mall. One side of the building houses the dilapidated 1887 Gaiety Theatre where Michael Palin did a turn during his Himalaya series; the other is the club, guarded by a strict set of rules, including the somewhat ambiguous, "Gentlemen are expected to dress up appropriately."

The place was busy: several fine moustaches quivered over the tea and pakoras, a few bejewelled fingers were toying with card games. Kipling would have felt quite at home, teasing a little scandalous gossip from the ladies. Raaja took me on a tour, pointing out that the theatre was to be fully restored under a new cantilevered steel roof that would also create space for a modern playhouse.

Afterwards we strolled along the Mall, dodging the children riding on yaks and playing impromptu games of cricket. I had given up my simplistic notion of a despoiled Shimla. The walk with Kalpa and now this tour had convinced me that the old hill station still had charm. But, I asked, what about that other side to the hill station, the peace and quiet, the sense of nature, the evening chills that came from jungle mists rather than over-enthusiastic air-conditioning? Was that still available?

Raaja thought about that. "Tranquility in Shimla is not so easy," he said, "Wildflower Hall has it. But if you want a bit of nostalgia, you should go to Kasauli - an old hill station about two hours' drive from here."

To reach Kasauli, one follows the main road out of Shimla to the plains, twisting down and down through endless hairpin bends. Then, after a couple of hours, you turn off the main highway and start up again on a side road. Immediately I noticed a difference: the ugly concrete ribbon developments stopped, the trees crowded in, and with them came the sound of cicadas and birds.

"The whole hill is army land," explained the driver, "And since 1948 they have not given permission for any new building."

At 6,335ft we emerged in Kasauli and abandoned the car to walk. It was exactly as I had hoped: tin-roofed bungalows with names like Waverley and Rosedene sitting in deep lawns fringed with scarlet canna lilies and pots of marigolds. Every house had a chimney - evidence of log fires for chilly evenings - and from the verandas were stunning views of endless misty jungle ridges. At the Ros Common Hotel I took lunch and watched the monkeys playing in the trees below. A sign commanded: "Self-eatables are not allowed. Please do not pluck the flowers or plants." It occurred to me, as I tucked into curried beans on toast, that for the first time in this trip I could not hear even a distant engine - nothing except birds and insects.

Later, strolling along the lane that runs the length of the ridge of Kasauli hill, I met Sonu, a youth in jeans and baseball cap. "Wasn't it boring here? Didn't he prefer Shimla?"

But he refused to be typecast as the modern teenager, despite his looks.

"I like it here," he insisted. "I wouldn't change a thing. Shimla can keep its cars and noise."

We stopped to look at the view. Below us was a little wooden bungalow, freshly painted in butterscotch and sky blue with deep shady verandas, the balustrades laden with geraniums in rusty old tins. A man was reading a newspaper in a deckchair on the lawn, sipping what looked like a gin and tonic.

Sonu grinned at me. "I'll meet you here in 20 years' time."

"Why?"

"I bet you that nothing will have changed."

We shook hands on a wager that - as I freely admitted to him - I fervently hope to lose.

Five more fabulous Oberoi hotels

Mena House Oberoi Cairo, Egypt

This hotel is so close to the Pyramids you feel the million-plus stone blocks piled into triangular perfection were a secondary project to the Oberoi's jasmine gardens and cabana-lined pools. Still, this means the balcony views are spectacular, and it's only a 15-minute walk back to the cool of your room after a day's sightseeing.

Palms tower like telegraph poles and frangipani trees drop their flamingo-pink petals into the pool in luscious gardens dotted with thatched villas. Wander between your room's sunken bath, private pool and teak four poster; dine on spiced seafood under fringed parasols; or slump on the Seminyak beach. oberoibali.com. Doubles from US$290 per night.

Motor Vessel Vrinda, Kerala, India

The backpackers may be happy with a basic houseboat but those with a bit more cash to flash could consider this luxury backwater cruise. The eight cabins have timber floors, ensuite showers and views of passing palms, canals and lakes. Pick up and drop off in Cochin.

Technically you could call this camping, but hang on a minute - private sundecks and walled gardens? Embroidered canopies? Gadgets, mini bars and personal butlers? Just the place to retire to after tiger spotting trips.

This one's ultra luxe (below) with a price-tag to match; it's probably worth getting married just to make use of the honeymooners' discount. Windsurfing, diving and sailing can be arranged, and there's an African-influenced bar for G&Ts. oberoi-mauritius.com. €800 per night, honeymooners from €555. "Stay 7 nights and your companion stays free" offer, until April 20, 2009 (excl Dec 15-Jan 11) if you book with Elegant Resorts (elegantresorts.co.uk).